


Without Song (currently being rewritten)

by sofancydancy (Lthien)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Cursed Jaskier, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, I'm throwing all the dad geralt feels at ya'll because I can, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapped Jaskier, M/M, Multi, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, Tags to be added, Temporary Character Death, The title may change, Titles are hard, can that be a tag, im gonna hurt the bard, jaskier deserves nicer things, jaskier loves geralt, jaskier turned into a weapon, kinda anyways, not really mortal anymore jaskier, someone save jaskier from me pls, witcher jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26626888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lthien/pseuds/sofancydancy
Summary: Where: Jaskier is turned into a weapon against those that would stand against the Nilfgaardian army and a hunter of a certain witcher and child of destiny...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 126





	1. The First Trial

**Author's Note:**

> Ah.
> 
> “So, he’s catching on,” Vilgefortz says to the right of them and Jaskier’s tear-streaked eyes trail to him, the sorcerer resting one shoulder casually against a dirty wall. “What is a poet without his voice? What is a bard? What is a spy?” Jaskier’s eyes bubble with more tears and he looks down, head low as he weeps, silent.
> 
> Dead.

Two years is a long time, especially in a time of war. Longer still when everything steadily turned to shit with each passing day. In Jaskier’s two years, he had lost quite a bit. First, Geralt. That one still stung, and he was quick to tuck away “Toss a Coin” soon after splitting ways. It hurt too much. Then came his ancestral home, overtaken by the Nilfgaarian soldiers when they took Lettenhove, not a year back. The world was getting bleaker every day and still, hope came with hushed whispers of _the White Wolf_ and his _cub._

He heard the whispers in every pub, inn, and square he passed. Now, even, with a tankard of ale in hand, the whispers near drive him mad.

Cirilla of Cintra _._ Geralt of Rivia’s child surprise…The one he never cared for. One thought to be dead until a year ago.

Honestly, if Jaskier stopped to really think about it, the thought brought a near hysteric laugh. Destiny really knew how to fuck things over and it seemed determined to chase Geralt down to the ends of the earth…to the very rock of the mountains.

Gritting his teeth, Jaskier drinks heavily from his tankard. Best to wash _that_ thought away quickly. What better than strong-ass ale? _Nothing._

Yeah, well. Destiny knew how to fuck Jaskier over too. In truth, he did his part for the war. He helped his cousin, Ferrant, and was an active spy for the Redanian army. He had put his life on the line more than once, and his hand on a blade more than he had on his lute in over a year.

Sometimes he wondered what Geralt would think on that—Jaskier, spy of Redania? Other times he thought: _who the fuck cares what he thinks, or where he goes._ When your heart’s broken, it’s hard not to be too bitter over…well, everything. Too, the war seemed only to get worse. Bloodier, crueler, and…it felt as though they were all going to lose. As if…all the heartbreak and risks weren’t enough.

Which…is how Jaskier found himself four or five ales down in some run-down inn…. _somewhere_ in Kaedwen.

Jaskier chuckles into his ale, the amber liquid cool upon his upper lip and _almost_ his nose. To be honest, he may be half drowning himself rather than drinking now. “Ah, right then,” Jaskier says for himself only, for who else would listen in a crowded pub anyways? No one but the useless gods…”Up you get,” Jaskier half sings and his ale sloshes to the dirt floor when his body does the exact _opposite_ and he goes crashing down.

“Ah, you’re right smashed, my friend,” A rather sexy voice comments somewhere to Jaskier’s right, and Jaskier chuckles far too hysterically, one hand wagging at the voice in response. His ass hurts from the fall and somewhere in his drunk brain, he knows it’s gonna bruise. Oh well.

“It’s a grand old time to be so, _friend,_ ” the ex-bard coos at the voice, his eyes feeling like marbles, unable to focus on it.

“Perhaps so,” Sexy Voice laughs and Jaskier tries and fails to get himself vertical, cursing as he does so. “Here.” Suddenly two sets of hands are on Jaskier and scoop him from the dirt, the heavily inebriated man nearly puking at the suddenness.

“Ah, fuck,” Jaskier grumbles and _Sexy Voice_ laughs aloud, right in his ear. Jaskier winces but tries to smile. “Sent by the gods to save this poor soul, I see! I thank you both! Now, I think it best to retire… _augh_ ,” Jaskier stops, swallowing the bile that creeps up his throat. “Yeah. Time for bed.”

“Ah, but the night is still young,” _Sexy Voice_ coos, and the hands that hold him grip tighter. Right, yeah. Time to shut _that_ down. Maybe Sexy Voice and Its’ Friend could come back when he wasn’t about to puke his guts out. Now, if only he could use his mouth and actually _tell them_ that.

“Not _that young_ anymore,” Jaskier murmurs back, fighting to keep his head up. “Tell no one, but I’m near my forty-third mark.”

“Terribly young, still,” Sexy Voice says and something in that simple statement has Jaskier’s hair nearly stand on end. His hands feel…tighter still.

“Then this _youngin’_ better get to bed.” He somehow raises one of his hands to wave at the bar-person. Or at someone. “I-I need a room.”

“No, you really don’t.”

Before Jaskier’s brain has time to really _hear_ those ominous words, Jaskier finds himself being dragged away from the bar, from the inn, and out into the cold autumn air. The harsh movement causes him to puke, Sexy Voice letting him go long before they get outside. Its’ Friend half gags, but takes his weight quite easily. He then finds himself tossed over a rather meaty shoulder, like a bag of potatoes.

“Well, fuck,” Jaskier slurs into his kidnapper’s puke-covered shoulder and promptly passes out.

When Jaskier wakes again, it’s with the unoriginal unpleasantness of cold water to the face. He sputters loudly, jolting from the rickety ass chair that supports his sore body. He was right; his ass definitely has a bruise. He groans low.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, of Lettenhove,” Sexy Voice calls, sharp, and Jaskier’s eyebrows furrow as he finds his hands bound behind his back. He slowly opens his sore eyes, blinking a few times before he can focus them. Before him sits someone he knows only from sketches and the curses of the few sorcerers he deems _not so shitty_ : Vilgefortz of Roggeveen.

Oh, _fuck._

Apparently, he said that aloud because Vilgefortz smirks, his dark brown eyes twinkling with pride. “I was hoping that you would recognize me. This makes this all the quicker.”

Jaskier gulps thickly at the end of _that_ sentence. Well, shit, if he’s going to die anyway— “How could one forget that of a _traitors’_?” Vilgefortz’s smirk fades quickly and Jaskier finds his throat pressed with one of the sorcerer’s famed twin blades. He struggles to swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing in fear against the unnatural sharpness. He squeaks when the blade ultimately nicks his skin, a bead rolling down his sweaty neck.

“How you have done anything helpful to the Redanian cause is beyond me,” Vilgefortz hisses, and Jaskier can hear the real anger behind his words, hung-over or not. He smiles wide, his neck still bent uncomfortably against a blade that has already cut him.

“Because I am one sneaky fucker,” Jaskier’s blue eyes twinkle at his captor. Vilgefortz says nothing but sheaths his blade quickly. He then grips Jaskier harshly by the jaw, pulling him in that way, the chair creaking under the forced shift of Jaskier’s weight.

“One that could be more useful to _me._ ”

Jaskier blinks at him.

“You must be out of your fucking mind if you think I’d join _you_. To what purpose do you—” Why capture a simple spy? A fucking ex-bard, ex-viscount, anyway? His purpose was to fulfill his duty and then die—Jaskier’s stopped with a sharp squeeze and shake of his jaw, Vilgefortz’s eyes crazed. The sorcerer’s hand slips across his mouth, forcing him to only listen.

“Who said anything about _asking_ you to join, Julian? You are but a means to an end. Perhaps the end of this war.” Jaskier’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. _An end to the war?_ He’d willingly die here and now if it _could_ end—but only at the hands of the good: Redanian, Cintran…a handful of witchers…Geralt. Jaskier bites Vilgefortz’s palm, hard. Blood fills his mouth but the sorcerer stands still, eyes no less crazed. Jaskier coughs when blood drips down his chin. Vilgefortz’s hand squeezes one more time, Jaskier closing his eyes tightly as if feels like his skull is going to split.

“You already have a taste for blood, I see… _good_. Then this only will make it better.” Before Jaskier can bite him again—or do anything really, Vilgefortz whistles under his breath. That’s when Jaskier realizes just how bad this is, when his eyes flick over the bare box of a room they’re currently in, then to the hard earth beneath his boots. There are no windows, just a door. He’s trapped. Then, worse still, when the barred door behind Vilgefortz opens and another sorcerer enters the room: obvious by the pride and hideously ancient-looking black robe he wears. Too, the wooden staff he holds in one aged hand.

Vilgefortz releases him then, Jaskier quick to spit the blood from his mouth in Vilgefortz’s face. “Fuck you!” He hisses through his blooded teeth, defiant to the end. He expects to get hit, stabbed, _something_ , but the two sorcerers just stare at him, the new one in disgust and regular disdain, but Vilgefortz...pleased(?)…as he wipes one hand quickly down his bloodied face.

“This is the one for the trials, then?” The disdained sorcerer asks haughtily, angrily, and Jaskier has half a mind to be offended. That is until common sense catches up with him. Whatever shit this is, he definitely doesn’t want any part of it.

“ _This one_ is Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove, ex-viscount of Lettenhove, and friend of Geralt of Rivia.” The other sorcerer frowns deeper at Geralt’s name and Jaskier half rolls his eyes. Of fucking course Geralt knows this sorcerer too.

“ _Ex_ -friend,” Jaskier is quick to mend first, then, “And it’s Jaskier. If my title is dead, then let my old name die with it. It died almost thirty years ago anyway.”

“It doesn’t really matter, nonetheless,” Vilgefortz tells Jaskier simply, standing next to the other sorcerer. He plops a familiar hand on the older sorcerer’s shoulder, a show of upper authority if Jaskier’s ever seen one. And he’s seen many.

“Jaskier, Stregobor of Aretuza.” If Jaskier’s eyes widen, he tries not to show it.

Of course, he knew of Stregobor. He had pried the name from Geralt’s lips long ago, after pestering the witcher long enough about the brooch wielded upon his steel sword. The soft spot Jaskier had seen in Geralt’s golden eyes whenever the witcher cleaned his blades stayed with him, even two years since seeing said witcher.

Heartbreak indeed.

Blue eyes wide with rage, Jaskier spits at Stregobor, his bloodied spittle hitting the edge of the man’s long-ass robe. “That’s for Renfri, you sick mother—” Jaskier screams suddenly, eyes wide with pain and shock. It feels like a bolt of electricity is currently going through his body.

“ _Enough_ ,” Stregobor growls and stands before him, Vilgefortz looking bored as Jaskier continues to scream and tears stream down his face. “You will learn many things, but let this be the first: your voice is not needed, nor wanted.”

Something swipes across Jaskier’s raging throat and suddenly he’s not screaming anymore. All he can do is try, his eyes wide with true fear now as he watches _and feels_ something leave his sore throat. Then, he gets it.

His voice. He…took his voice.

Jaskier can only blink in horror as Stregobor’s staff absorbs _whatever_ he just took from Jaskier’s body to render him speechless. To Jaskier, it is worse than death. He feels it immediately, that clawing need. Knowing that he will never sing again, speak, laugh…be _Jaskier_ again _._

_Ah._

“So, he’s catching on,” Vilgefortz says to the right of them and Jaskier’s tear-streaked eyes trail to him, the sorcerer resting one shoulder casually against a dirty wall. “What is a poet without his voice? What is a bard? What is a _spy_?” Jaskier’s eyes bubble with more tears and he looks down, head low as he weeps, silent.

_Dead._

“No, no,” Vilgefortz coos, as he had the night before. Jaskier’s eyes firmly remain closed when he feels the sorcerer grip his chin, as if he were a chastised child, though he makes no move to lift Jaskier’s head from his heaving chest. “Rejoice. You are about to be reborn into something the world has never seen…molded by techniques buried with those who died protecting them, and…themselves reborn by them. Don’t you see?”

No, Jaskier really does not. He shakes his head, unable to do anything else. Vilgefortz raises his head then and Jaskier opens his eyes again to look into the sorcerer’s dark eyes. He sees no light in them, no humanity, nothing. He wants to scream. Then, Jaskier feels that cool blade returns to his throat, this time cutting. This time…lethal.

Jaskier is suddenly choking on his own blood, his whole body convulsing on the chair as his essence hits the cold earth below them. That is, until Vilgefortz places his palm firmly around Jaskier’s throat, slowing the blood, but not stopping it.

He’s still going to die.

“Luckily, we found a little way around _certain_ errors…” With that last confusing parting, Vilgefortz releases Jaskier’s mangled throat and both sorcerers are the only ones present as Jaskier, ex-viscount turned famed bard, Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, and spy, takes his last few breaths.

It’s nothing like the end Jaskier saw himself having. In the last few years, he gave up on the idea of dying as an old man, surrounded by those he loved. But…this…

Alone, truly. And…without song.

Jaskier’s eyes dim, lit with eternity, and the last thing he thinks of is the honeyed gold of Geralt’s eyes.


	2. All of Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can hear the screams of his brothers. They lurk behind that bright blue.  
> “What have you done?” Coën can only ask, his voice half-broken as he stares at the mutant before him. At a…brother.

_One year later…_

Hair the color of ash blows wild and green eyes scan the terrain, looking…Seeking. Greeted only with the birds and wind, a princess long-dead closes her eyes and listens.

Leaves sing to her, nearly overwhelming as she tries to push past them. She can hear them—the bugs upon the fragile veins. The morning dew, as it glistens on each leaf…droplets forming…sliding down—

—a dead-soft inhale.

Ciri smirks, full of brightness.

Suddenly, she hears the _shnng_ of a blade.

The soft crunch of the grass.

Then…her feet are knocked from under her.

A familiar blade is pressed under her chin, golden eyes full of mirth as they stare into her wide, confused, green. “And…you’re dead.” Geralt mirrors the smirk he wiped from Ciri’s own, watching her face screw up in irritation.

“There’s no way in hell! I caught you! _Heard_ you!”

“Yes,” Geralt tells her as he helps her up with his free hand, quick to wrap an arm around her damp shoulder as they walk, pulling her into a loose hug. “And I caught _you._ What have I taught you: push through all else.”

“My _smile_? Is that what gave me away?” Ciri asks, her hands extended in front of her, exasperated. “Oh, am I to adopt the _witchers are emotionless_ at the ripe age of fourteen, Geralt?”

Geralt frowns, his hand tightening briefly upon his daughter’s shoulder. “You shall never have to worry about that,” he tells her, as he had many times before. Ciri rolls her eyes in turn.

“Neither should you,” She tells him under her breath, for the hundredth time. Geralt smiles softly, his golden eyes set on the path ahead of them.

“Hm,” Comes his infuriating response and Ciri pushes him playfully. Geralt’s smile only grows when he hears a pair of familiar feet in the brush. “All these years of training and you still drag your feet over the grass—”

“Oh, fuck right off,” Huffs a loud response and Lambert appears to the right of Ciri, ruffling her long hair and easily dodging her swats. “I _do not_ drag my feet. I am graceful as fuck.”

“Right,” Geralt says, eyebrow raised.

Ciri laughs, shaking her head as she stares up at the other witcher with love in her heart. “In the two years that I’ve known you, you’ve proven to be anything but!”

“Oh yeah? And from the grass in your hair, you got caught again, cub.” Ciri gnashes her teeth and both witchers smile down at her, before looking at one another in the eyes.

 _What is it?_ Geralt’s look asks his brother, and Lambert’s lips thin out and he gives a quick shake of his dead.

 _It’s fucking bad, is what it is,_ Lambert’s eyes half scream. Geralt’s face twitches and he looks away, his honey-gold eyes swimming with unkept anger. Ciri watches this keenly of course, her green eyes not as quick as their enhanced ones, but she knows one thing: things are steadily getting worse…somehow.

“You can just say it, you know,” Ciri says and she pushes away from them both, the two witchers watching her sadly, smiles gone. “It’s mid- _spring_ , for the gods’ sake. We have yet to set back on the path and you all are keener now than ever to keep me locked in Kaer Morhen. Too, we still haven’t found Yennefer…”

At Yen’s name, Geralt winces. It’s been nearly three years since the Battle of Sodden. Both Triss and Yennefer are said to have died, but it seems impossible. Especially considering Yen’s body was never found, and Triss’…Who knows. It would be great to have her on their side, though. Or, at least to know that she isn’t dead…Something Ciri insists on, that _ancient_ look in her eyes with each passing dream and nightmare.

“No, we haven’t,” Geralt says simply. There’s too much to unpack. “There are many people that aren’t with us, many that we haven’t seen in a long time.” _Like Jaskier_? Geralt’s subconscious screams at him and the witcher swallows down _that_ worry for the thousandth time.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

Geralt can still see the hurt on the bard’s face, his friend of twenty years…crest-fallen. Heartbroken. Because that’s what it was. He’s had three years to think about that; on their relationship of _two decades._ Of…the time lost.

But…that was on hold. Everything was. All that mattered now was the girl that stood before them, and the end of the war. Ciri was his priority. His Child Surprise. His… _daughter_.

Ciri sighs fondly at Geralt’s _melted_ look. She can see the love deep within those terrifying eyes, in both pairs. In Lambert, who watches Geralt and her with a blend of adoration and constipation. “You all are such a mess,” Ciri says and reaches for them both, holding them in a tighter hug than they would ever dare give.

“Lamb, I know you’re here to collect Geralt, just…don’t treat me like a kid, okay? I’ve seen my fair share of darkness. I’ve been training for a year now. I’m not _terribly_ helpless. I even have a few scars of my own!” Lambert and Geralt huff, both unwilling to tell her that she has those scars because _she misstepped._ They both have the same scars from their first few years of training. Geralt holds her face in his scarred hands, smoothing his thumbs over her sharp cheekbones.

“Go hit on a training dummy or two, yeah? I’ll tell you more later, maybe after supper.” Ciri sighs yet again, but nods. She gives them both one last hug and dashes off, her hand going to her dagger.

Lambert and Geralt watch her go, the air turning grimmer without her presence. She brought more light into their lives than anything else— _purpose._ They would kill to protect her, which…

“Who is it?” Geralt asks lowly, his golden gaze set upon the grass below them.

“Coën.”

School of the Griffin.

Geralt’s nostrils flare as he takes in a breath and closes his eyes.

“Dead?”

“Missing.”

“Fuck,” Geralt hisses and wipes a dirty hand down his face.

“ _Fucking bullshit_ ,” Lambert hisses back, canines glistening like the wolf he represents. “Coën’s a big motherfucker, I can’t see him go… _missing_.”

“That’s because he was taken,” Geralt growls back, white hair flying. “Like…the rest of them.

Lambert’s eyes glisten with fire, the youngest wolf near rabid. “It’s that fuckin’ _hound._ ” His voice sounds like a rockslide in his anger and woe. His hands clench and unclench rapidly and Geralt sends him another look: _calm._

“ _I am fucking calm_ ,” Lambert practically roars and the witcher’s chaos clearly _is not._ It lurks beneath his skin like an itch and he quickly raises one hand high, past the trees: _igni._

The flames reach for the heavens, carrying Lambert’s rage and woe with it. They don’t stay long, however, because Geralt signs aard and the other witcher splits a tree in half with the force he hits it with.

“Are you fucking stupid?!” The white wolf growls as he grips Lambert’s shirt in his fist, picking him up and pressing him against another tree, hard. “ _Ciri is still in this fucking forest.”_ He spares a look up at the trees, searching for Lambert’s lingering flame. They are scorched, but seemingly all right. He misses Lambert’s wounded expression at the mention of Ciri.

“She’s whacking a dummy to death by now,” Lambert grumbles but keeps his head low. Geralt curses and releases him, shaking his head.

“You’re lucky I don’t whack _you_ to death, or Vesemir. If you think he didn’t see that, you’re a lost cause.” Lambert winces openly then.

“He’s gonna kick my ass, isn’t he?”

“Probably.”

“ _Well_ …”

“No, come on.” Geralt doesn’t let him respond, turning and walking away. Lambert curses, but tries his best to swallow his rage and follows quickly after his brother.

“What are we going to do?” Lambert asks Geralt when he matches his pace. Geralt looks at him then, seeing his youth beneath the… _witcher._ He sighs.

“If Nilfgaard wants to keep sending their _dog_ for their dirty work…then I think it’s time it comes in contact with its better. Lambert’s canines gleam again, that mad twinkle back in his eye.

***

“Absolutely fucking not,” Is Eskel’s immediate response, both hands resting on the table in front of him. Vesemir hums along with him, their master looking at the sketches of the witchers that have gone missing, or have died mysteriously in the last year. Eskel sighs. “At least we have yet another confirmation as to where Geralt learned _that_ trait. But this is still a shitty idea. We stayed in Kaer Morhen to _protect_ Ciri. Also, this…Hound of Nilfgaard is most definitely looking for you, Geralt. _For Ciri_.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Geralt gnashes at him, golden eyes bright even in the glow of the fire behind them. “I would die before I let anything happen to her, but this _hound_ …will keep picking at us until there’s none left. There’s already so few of us left.”

“That’s the point,” Lambert adds in softly, after getting told off by Vesemir not an hour ago for the fireball. “It’s a trap, Geralt.”

“When isn’t it?” Geralt’s eyes are soft as he looks at his family. He can hear Ciri’s heartbeat, down the hall in her room. He looks down at his hand upon their worn dining room table.

“You all have a point,” Vesemir finally comments, all eyes going to him. To their father, master. “To start, princess Cirilla’s powers are still unkept, despite her training with each of us, but especially that of Eskel.”

Eskel swallows and thinks of how much raw power that flows from the teenager. With as much magic that he holds—the most talented witcher in regards to the use of magic—he can no longer help her. “She needs a sorcerer’s help, or sorceress.”

“That is a dream that will stay unfulfilled until I can find Triss or Yennefer,” Geralt tells them with a sigh. “Triss I trust with my life. Yen…we can trust too.”

“Oh, yeah, _that_ sounded confident.” Groans Lambert. From the very little that they had dragged from Geralt, their relationship was very much a strained one. Geralt bares his teeth.

“ _Boys_ ,” Vesemir growls out and they all quieten. “We are witchers, thrown into a world of growing chaos. I fear we can no longer choose to remain neutral in the affairs of it. Not with this Child of Surprise who…we all love very much.” The wolves look upon their master in awe, seeing the change that Ciri had brought to them all. “Therefore, I say that Geralt is right. Nilfgaard must be stopped, and if they think that a witcher of Kaer Morhen is likely to walk into a trap without its teeth bared, then they are fools.”

All golden eyes fall upon the white wolf, mixed emotions overwhelming the room. Geralt nods at his master once, then looks to Eskel. Eskel’s eyes are dark and, with a shake of his head, he leaves the room, Vesemir’s word final but still unwanted. Geralt clenches his jaw at the ache in his chest and nods at Lambert, who practically buzzes with excitement in his seat.

“I said _a_ witcher, Lambert,” Vesemir reminds him and takes a sip of the ale he had long forgotten. Lambert huffs angrily, plopping his head in his gloved hands.

“When you ultimately fuck up, don’t worry, I’ll come and save your mangy ass.”

“Hm, you wish,” Geralt tells him and quickly finishes his own forgotten drink, knowing that Ciri is far past _impatient_ at this point. A few rooms down he can hear her quick steps—pacing. She isn’t going to like what he has to say, he knows. But the truth remains: anything for Ciri. Anything for his brothers.

***

To say that Coën is pissed, would be an understatement. He wants to bite the head off every fucker that stands before him, especially the one who beat him unconscious. Or, _whatever_ it is. It is clearly not human. In the way that it moved, it mirrored that of a witcher. But, at the time, Coën couldn’t tell which school. It moved… _so fucking fast._ What else could it be? Another mutant? A Bruxa? 

It was _the Hound_ , or whatever they called it. It had to be. The thing that had captured other witchers before him. Coën hopes that, in his failing, he might find where the others are, no matter how long that takes.

Even now, locked in a cellar of iron, Coën rests on his knees. His bound hands lay calmly in front of him. He has meditated since he woke a few days ago, breaths controlled. Beneath though, boils a rage he has never felt. To be beaten…To be beaten and chained. His chaos itches to be released. However, strangely enough, he still has everything he was captured in: down to his swords and medallion.

For the first time in the near week that he has been imprisoned, the door of his cage opens and so does Coën’s eyes. The witcher looks up to see an unfamiliar face smile down at him as if he hasn’t been chained and bound for days.

“You all have heavy steps,” Coën tells the stranger simply. “You may have left me here, but you never truly left me…Couldn’t get a wink of sleep.” He makes a show of a yawn. The stranger before him ignores his comment, keen brown eyes roaming over him rather creepily. “Damn, you could at least buy me dinner first.”

“My beastling did quite a feat upon you,” The stranger finally comments, ignoring the witcher yet again. The evidence lies upon Coën’s bearded face, the witcher’s skin a mottled black and blue. Too, Coën can feel and see how his right forearm is bent in an…unatural direction. Coën’s anger was worse than his pain. Coën bites his tongue, stopping the rage from bursting forth.

The stranger smiles wider. “Don’t worry, my friend, you got him too. He came back to me bleeding quite heavily…but not without a prize.”

“Fuck off,” Coën finally spits, teeth bared. “Get to the point: what do you want?”

“Cirilla of Cintra,” The stranger tells him simply, honestly. Coën blinks.

Geralt’s Child of Surprise. He hadn’t seen her, but he knew that Geralt found her. That she was safe from whatever this fucker wanted from her.

“The dead princess,” Coën deadpans, eyebrows raised. “Well, good fuckin’ luck.” The stranger sighs, unamused.

“We shall find her without you or not, but we are getting closer. You know him. Geralt of Rivia, the famed white wolf.”

Coën’s eyes gleam bright yellow in the dark of his cell. “We hail from different schools, fame means nothing to us.” Brown eyes stare into mutant yellow, a smirk upon his captor’s lips.

“No matter. Beastling will sense it upon you. I am sure you are itching to meet him, yes? Your fellow mutant who bested you.”

 _Fellow_. Coën’s mouth twitches in disgust. A fellow witcher then, but who? A Cat? “Fine then,” he says and slowly stands, careful with his broken arm. The stranger tuts at him, watching how the witcher favors it.

“A right shame that is still such an issue…Even with mine.” Coën blinks at him, confused over all this bullshit.

“I’ve already told you that I have no clue where Geralt of Rivia is, even if I do know of him. I am not sure why you’ve captured me, but I know that you have captured others before me. What has become of them?”

The stranger smiles again, wider. “You shall see.” Coën grits his teeth. He hates fucking riddles.

“What school, then?” He asks instead, his sentence clipped with anger. _What school is your witcher from?_ Brown eyes twinkle with mirth and Coën wants to punch those white teeth in.

“All of them.”

***

“I’m on Eskel’s side,” Ciri hisses as soon as Geralt tells her. She gets up from where they both sat upon her small bed and paces yet again. Geralt smiles softly at her. “This is such a stupid idea.”

“I’m to leave in the next few days, Ciri.” Ciri turns then, her green eyes ablaze and hair wild. She looks like the wolf she has become.

“Not without me.”

Geralt sighs. “Yes, Ciri. Without you. The others will stay here too.”

“I’m not the same helpless little girl that I was,” Ciri growls out, riled up like a feral kitten.

“We know that. Of course you aren’t, but your magic is still uncontrolled and the whole Continent is after you.” The white wolf rests his forearms easily upon his knees, watching as his daughter continues to pace. The air in the room tingles in her rage, her eyes greener… “Peace, Ciri.” At this, Ciri closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths. Her magic cools but does not lessen. She sighs and goes back to her place, by Geralt’s side.

“I hate this,” She tells her hands. “Everyone that I have ever loved has died for me, Geralt. I know that we have only known each other for two years…but I have known you longer.” Geralt smiles softly and takes one of her hands in his.

“You are half of my soul, my cub,” Geralt whispers to her, knowing that their family can hear every word spoken. “Even if we are apart, we will find each other again. You need only close your eyes and I’ll be here.” He presses a warm kiss upon her head and Ciri’s eyes well with tears, her nose a bright cherry red. She buries her head in his worn black tunic, trying her best to stop her tears.

“Kick their ass, yeah?” Ciri’s voice cracks at the end and Geralt laughs softly, nodding.

Geralt leaves the next day, packed for the Path. It is a weird year for all of them, the wolves of Kaer Morhen staying in their keep with only one leaving—and leaving late in the spring, nearly summer.

After their meeting, Eskel had stayed clear of them all, staying to himself—training by himself. However, as Geralt prepared to leave, he was the first to say goodbye. Without a word, had Eskel gripped his brother by his neck and pressed their heads together, both sets of golden eyes closed.

“You had better come back,” Eskel had practically growled at him. Eskel and him trained together, fought together more times than they both could count. They were like fire and ice, closer than blood.

After Eskel came Lambert, who still huffed angrily about being left behind, but pressed his forehead against Geralt’s own in parting nonetheless. “I’m with the cub: kick all the ass, double it for me, yeah?”

Then, came Vesemir. They had nodded to each other, their master’s eyes lit with pride. “Come home soon, Geralt.”

Then…Ciri. Ciri who had jumped into his arms without care of his armor, or the watching eyes. “Please be careful Geralt! I will try and find Yennefer, but I promise not to push too hard!” _I love you_ , wasn’t said, but wasn’t needed. They all could feel it.

In truth, Geralt knows that he will hold onto this love in the darkness to come, for in this hunt…he will also be the hunted.

***

“ _What the actual fuck_?” Coën gasps, every cell in his body on alert at the creature that stands on the opposite side of the room. Bright crystal blue eyes watch him, cutting through his entire being with ease. This is undoubtedly the creature that attacked him, but he doesn’t remember the eyes…They match his yellow, which marks a witcher. But…That _blue_. It shines like lightning. His captor laughs brightly behind him as he walks over to his ‘beastling’s’ side. Those blue eyes never blink and Coën feels the _threat._

_Move. Please, move._ That blue sings. Taunts. Coën grits his teeth and the creature smiles softly.

Whatever _It_ is, the vessel is young. It’s hair is halfway to the shoulder, the color a soft grey—much like Geralt of Rivia’s. It half sends a chill down Coën’s spine. Too, this creature is…heavily scarred. More scarred than he is, which is saying something. The first scar visible is the one across his throat. It was a lethal blow. The scarring is smooth though, clean. It was made by a sure hand…cruel. Too, It wears the colors of Nilfgaard, gold and black, but mainly the more somber color. Unlike the Nilfgaardian armor, this creature wears smooth leather. It fits like a second skin, expensive.

“Dressed to impress,” The creature’s master says and Coën’s yellow eyes leave those blue for a second to the deep brown of his captor’s, who places one hand calmly on the beast’s shoulder. “Ah, yes…My name is Vilgefortz of Roggeveen.” Vilgefortz grips his beast by it’s smooth chin, wiggling it’s stone-still head playfully. “This here is my Hound.”

Coën’s blood chills even more, his stance more rigid. The Hound of Nilfgaard. So this…is it. Of fucking course it is. A creature made…from what? Witchers?

_What school, then?_

_All of them._

Coën feels his chaos unleash, a rage for his brothers who had died in the trials and to those who died much later, alone as a witcher does. Rage at the corruption of whoever this creature was before Nilfgaard ravaged him, body and soul. Without having been there, Coën can feel his own screams match the Creature’s own as his body was remade, modified until his very blood curdled in his veins.

He can hear the screams of his brothers. They lurk behind that bright blue.

“What have you done?” Coën can only ask, his voice half-broken as he stares at the mutant before him. At a… _brother._

Vilgefortz shoots him a calm stare, his fingers yet to release the corrupted mutant’s face. “I’ve done what no other school could do: perfect the trials.” Coën winces violently at this, his teeth bared and gnashing. Those too blue eyes seem only to brighten then, at his threat. Vilgefortz coos at him, like a dog. Coën only gets madder at this.

“You have no idea what you’re messing with!” Coën screams at him, his golden eyes bright with fury. “To take…from the school of witchers…to create… _this_!” The witcher gestures wildly at the Hound, who has yet to look away from him or move. A living statue—weapon.

“Sure I do,” Vilgefortz says softly, dark eyes near black. “I created what you lot were meant to be: weapons. I perfected it…” He slowly walks around the Hound, eyes proud at the devastation before them. “For instance: bring him to me.”

Before Coën has the time to think, the Hound is right before him—those bright blue eyes swimming with power. It was if he’d blinked and suddenly _there._ Hands still tied, Coën is picked up by his throat with ease and tossed across the room, the witcher crashing in front of Vilgefortz. Coën's already broken arm is all but shattered now, and he gasps in sheer agony, rolling on his side and cradling it close to his already beaten body. Vilgefortz _tsks_ at him and watches as the Hound calmly walks back to his master, stopping in front of where Coën lies, writhing. Vilgefortz smiles wildly.

“Good boy.”

The Hound mimics the smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, struggling with the past and present tense.........and I have an English Degree. *stares into the camera like I'm on The Office*  
> Also: this is nearly 4k words and I've been writing this all day loll! I hope you like it! I really wanted to get to Jaskier again! And........I googled everything about the monsters etc because I'm a mess. If you see any errors, please let me know! :)


	3. Rewrite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am re-writing this and digging deeper...

Hi guys!! I am currently re-writing this story and you can find the first chapter of the updated version under the same title as this one on my dash...I knew that I could do this idea more justice, so I'm gonna! Thank you all so much for your comments and support and I hope you'll give the rewrite some love too! Also: I painted my witcher Jaskier and will add him in the chapters to come!

**Author's Note:**

> Lord help me...I did this all in one sitting so I am so sorry if it reads that way. I just had to get it out. Please let me know if anything reads weird, or the past and present tense are all out of whack because that's one of my issues with writing! Anyway--I hope you enjoyed it! I will be writing more for it!


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